


Crusade

by Silvergray1358



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Come Swallowing, Crusades, Diarmuid is 17, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Journey Home, Kissing, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medieval Medicine, Oral Sex, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, Romantic Friendship, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Torture, War, Warning if Age Gap Bothers You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-28 13:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15050474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergray1358/pseuds/Silvergray1358
Summary: It was supposed to be a four-day trip from Kilmannán to Waterford, but the journey back is going to prove itself to be even more arduous for the remaining two pilgrims. Now alone, Brother Diarmuid and the Mute have to rely on each other to survive but exposed feelings may have changed things between them.





	1. Tabula Rasa

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation from the end of the film because sad endings suck, am I right? I also really wanted to explore the teased back-story for the Mute with the Crusades and the relationship between him and Diarmuid... so naturally I have a gory, smutty story like always. 
> 
> OR the fanfic that exists because when a movie gives me an open end I say, “Screw that, I’m doing it my way.”
> 
> I also wanted to stress that Diarmuid is 17 in this story, so if the age gap isn't your cup of tea, you've been warned.

     It was eerie in a way how life could be so cyclical. Just like now, five years ago the Mute had also laid on the sandy shore of this foreign land and waited for death to finally find him. Then, he had been desperate for death to come, for a man like himself deserved a spot in the deepest circle of hell and he longed to begin eternity atoning for the wretched things he had done.

     Maybe the Devil hadn’t been done teasing him yet though, for he had sent one of God’s angels to stave death off that day.

     Small, delicate hands had touched his face, startling him enough to open his eyes, although a minute earlier he had thought he lacked the strength entirely. The sun bleached his eyes and after a moment of blinking, he saw the round face of a boy, barely older than a decade he would guess based on the smooth, sweet features of his face.

     He watched as the boy’s face, eyebrows knitted together, scanned over his weak frame on the sand. When the vision spoke, it wasn’t in his native French, or even English which he could at least understand, but rather in a tongue he had never heard of before. Perhaps it really was an angel above him, for surely the lilting, curly-sounding words that left his lips were sweet and heavenly-like.

     The boy paused, still holding his face as if expecting him to answer, but the Mute’s throat screamed red-hot, radiating pain and he had never been so thirsty in his life. He wished he could answer the angel though; apologize for his sins before death took him. Instead he had passed out on the shore of the land he would spend the next five years of his life living on.

     Days later, after the brotherhood of monks had nursed him back from the brink of death, the Mute had come to find that the angel from the beach was just another mortal.

     He was the novice monk, youngest there among the holy men, and his name was Diarmuid.

     Regardless of this knowledge, five years later, the same thought popped into his head when a pair of hands cradled his face again while he bled into the light sand beneath him.

     The Mute cracked his eyes open and for a brief moment he thought he might cry at the sight of the same angel.

_Diarmuid._

     He had come back to the shore. Were Raymond De Merville’s men gone? Where was the rock? The world spun and the burning in his core deepened as he took another breath. The pain though was irrelevant. He couldn’t focus on anything other than the warm hands touching him, fingers woven into his hair and holding his neck in a sandy grasp.

     “Stay with me. You cannot leave me too…” Diarmuid said in the tongue the Mute had now come to understand all this time later. His thumbs were rubbing along the Mute’s cheekbones and into his beard, making his eyes flutter as they tried to stay trained on the Novice’s face.

     Diarmuid’s eyes were red rimmed but his face had that stern, determined look on it that the Mute would always think fondly of. Leave him? The Mute knew all the way down in his core that he had never found anything more lovely than being beside the young monk, gaining his friendship and tender company. The Greek arrow in his chest was not going to allow him much choice though. The metal was hooked somewhere deep in his abdomen, tugging on his guts as he gently breathed and his hip blossomed deep pain from the mace’s swing.

     All those years before, the Mute had begged for death, but now he wished he could fight it back just to spend a little longer here in his young friend’s arms. He let himself be greedy with his wish, savoring the seconds. For honestly, what was one more sin on the mountain he had already garnered.

     “We are going to move you away from here. You must stay present, here with me,” Diarmuid begged. What did he mean move him away? Perhaps they aimed to prevent Raymond’s men from returning to collect his body from the beach. Surely they would desecrate the Mute’s corpse in front of the remaining men. A celebration of the death of the Devil who slaughtered their men and leader. The Mute could not have cared less for what happened to his corpse though.

     He realized that there was no longer any reason to keep his vow of silence. He had already broken it speaking to Raymond De Merville. He had held that vow for years, yet when he had stood there, locked together with the French knight, moments away from his remaining strength draining, he had answered the other man’s question easily.

     It had been the most honest answer he had ever given.

     The Mute's throat worked, trying to get rid of the dryness there, and opened his mouth to speak with a hitching breath.

     Diarmuid gasped and two of his fingers came up to press against his lips, stopping him.

     “No,” he whispered. The Mute’s eyebrows furrowed together, puzzled.

     “I have dreamt many nights of hearing you speak, but I will not allow you to break your vow,” Diarmuid confessed. “No, not now.  Not because you fear you are about to die.”

     The Mute’s heart ached but it had nothing to do with his wounds.

     “You are not done fighting, stay here with me,” the small monk said.

     He tried. He really tried, but without his permission, everything went black.

 

     ~*~

 

     At first there was nothing, but after an unknown stretch, the Mute finally noticed he was moving. Like laying on a giant beast while it breathed deeply in sleep.

     No. It was more like rocking.

     Like the rocking of a boat on smooth waves. His throat felt like burning coals and his whole being felt nearly as hot. He could even hear the sounds of birds cawing high above him as he laid in the sun. The light was almost too bright, even through his eyelids but he had not a single ounce of strength to turn his head, not that it would have done him much good in the painful rays of sun. His head spun with the waves of heat but even through the disorientation he knew where he was.

     This was Hell.

     He was destined to spend eternity on this god-forsaken boat. His punishment. His exile.

     When he had returned to France after the siege of Constantinople, the others saw right away to punishing him for his act of defiance. His actions on that final day of sieging in the Holy City had been so unforgivable that he, a man of the cross who had been promised a seat next to God for his servitude, was still sentenced to exile. It was truly an execution disguised, yet he had gone without a fight.

     Of all those years fighting, he had been proud of what he had done in the end.

     If his punishment was the cause of his death, than so be it. He was still deserving of it a hundred times over.

     How appropriate that this vessel would be his eternity. A man, turned away from God and civilization, lost at sea forever alone with only his guilt.

     Something was different from last time though. He had barely felt it through the agony of pain in his body but he noticed it finally.

     Cool hands were gently petting his head, brushing hair off his sweaty brow and cooling his cheeks. It was such a stark comparison to everything else he felt and he tried to cling to the feeling in his daze.

     Maybe it was a guardian angel. He remembered something about an angel, right? He couldn’t think straight through the heat consuming him and again the blackness swallowed him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bit more outlined for this so I'm going to try to keep posting every week. Thanks for reading! =)


	2. The Deeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of gore, blood, and medical procedures in this chapter.

     The boat was swifter heading back up the river towards the marshes than it was heading towards the ocean but even so, Diarmuid had never felt time move slower.

     “Stop fidgeting, boy. I can’t make it go any faster,” the Captain snapped, pulling Diarmuid out of his thoughts. He hadn’t realized he had been moving. He sat behind the Captain, the Mute’s head in his lap as the crusader lay prone in the vessel.

     “Even with the tide on our side, I doubt that he’ll make it to the village,” the scruff Captain said, eyeing the unconscious man. His tone sounded doubtful, sure, but the lack of resolve gave Diarmuid something to latch on to.

     “But if we did make it there, back to your village, there would be someone who could help?”

     “Mmm,” the Captain hummed in response. He turned his head back towards the river. “Aye, but trust me boy… She’s a mighty bitch, I swear.”

     They sat in silence as the Captain paddled. The sun was beginning to inch below the treetops, casting long shadows across the river. A cool breeze began running through the cut of trees, rippling the water-top and cooling the sweat on their skins.

     “Thank you,” Diarmuid finally said, “for your help.”

     The Captain grunted. “Because of you, Stiobhard’s dead. He was a bastard, through and through, but now I’ll have to do twice the work myself. You’re lucky that I hate those fucking French bastards even more.”

     “You do?”

     “Aye. Sons of bitches come through The Deeps from time to time. Love taking what’s not theirs. All in the name of your God,” he spat out.

     Diarmuid could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. What was it that Brother Geraldus had said? _The blackest of their deeds bind them to us._

     “Him though,” the Captain said with a tilt of his head towards the Mute, “he actually killed that bastard leader of their troop. I figure that he at least deserves a ferry down the river Styx for the favor.”

     Diarmuid, at least thankful, accepted his answer and let the man work in silence. It could have been wishful thinking but the Mute in his arms seemed to be breathing strongly even with the hook in him. Who had invented such an evil tool? To think how long a man could be held, tortured over hours-- _days_ \-- with this instrument.

     How many men had Raymond De Merville alone make suffer this horrendous fate?

     Diarmuid tried to keep the boiling anger he felt from distracting him. There wasn’t much for him to do to help, but he reached his hand over and dipped it into the cool water beside him. He cupped a small bit and carefully pulled it back to drip it softly along the Mute’s forehead, wiping the sweat from his cheeks and neck before repeating the action.

     The sun along the coast had been brutal and the Mute’s face was hot and a bit burnt. At least he still _had_ color in his face. The huge, hanging trees along the river had been a sent blessing and the shade and cool water actually seemed to be working at least a little now.

     Diarmuid tried to keep his touches perfunctory but it still didn’t stop the electric feeling on his skin as it ran over the warmth of the Mute’s heavy brow, strong cheekbones that faded into the dark hair of his rough beard, and down to the thick cords of muscles in his neck.

     A strong wave of possessive proctectiveness seared through his veins. It was him who had found the Mute washed up on their beach and God had placed the responsibility of the older man’s life in his hands that day.

     Whoever this medicine woman was, no matter how much of a ‘bitch’ she truly was, he was going to stop at nothing to give his friend the fighting chance he deserved.

     When the orange ball of sun was level with the land, the beginning of twilight, Diarmuid saw pillars of smoke above the trees as they floated off into nothingness.

     It wouldn’t be long now; they were close.

 

     ~*~

 

     Between the two of them, Diarmuid and the Captain barely managed to carry the Mute. The massive man was nothing but dead weight and Diarmuid hoped that wherever the Captain was leading them was close. They made their way up the river embankment and past the first houses of The Deeps.

     The village was composed of a smattering of solid looking, modest, wooden houses. The walls were made of ash trees and the roofs were thatched tight with small holes where smoke billowed out of chimneys. The windows had no glass like the massive churches and castles in the cities Diarmuid had learned about, but the houses were far more grand than the stone cells the monks lived in at the monastery.

     The men made their way between houses on the beaten pathways towards the edge of the gathering of dwellings. Diarmuid saw a handful of people about, watching them closely and whispering amongst themselves, but no one called out or stopped them.

     A house on the outermost circle was smaller than the others, but it had a little attachment on the side. The addition had one latched shut window and it’s own door which the Captain lead them to. He instructed Diarmuid to rest the Mute down while he undid the latch on the door.

     Diarmuid’s eyes glanced over to the main section of the house. Through an unlatched window, he saw that a fire was glowing inside, flickering shadows against the walls. He wondered if this was the Captain’s house or the medicine woman’s.

     With the door opened, he helped the Captain drag the Mute inside. It was cramped, barely larger than his own little shelter, but the floor was nice wood and it even had a small fireplace on the side connecting to the main house. In the middle of the floor, taking up most of the space, was a stitched mattress made of heavy linen and most likely stuffed with timothy grass based on the sweet, earthy scent in the room. They rested the Mute down on it and the Captain went for the door.

     “I’ll fetch O’ Murchadha, but she’s yours to face alone,” he grunted out and left.

     Diarmuid could hear as he knocked on the front door but he couldn’t hear words as they spoke inside.

     It was dim in the small room, the low light barely creeping in through the open door. He knelt down beside the Mute who seemed almost peaceful as he lay on the soft bed. Diarmuid knew though that the Mute was anything but fine. The arrow stood rigidly out of his abdomen, right under the dip of his rib cage. There was surprisingly little blood that had trickled down his side but Diarmuid could not imagine what the metal had done to his insides. The Mute’s body seemed to be littered with small wounds and blossoming bruises. Who knew how many other wounds he had suffered.

     Diarmuid's eyes drifted down to the Mute’s hand resting by his side. He reached for it and held it between his own, slight hands. The first two knuckles had been split and Diarmuid was mindful not to hit them as he stroked his thumb across the back of the Mute’s hand while his thoughts raced.

     What had his friend been about to say on the shore? A selfish part inside of him wished he hadn’t stopped him. He knew there was a very likely chance the man beside him would never wake again. He had thrown away his opportunity to hear his friend’s voice, his thoughts, but he also knew that he had to keep faith alive that it was not yet the man’s time.

     Suddenly, the main door slammed shut and the sound of angry muttering got closer. Stomping into the doorway came a massive woman. Her wild mane of grey hair framed her face which was younger looking than her hair suggested and yet she did not seem pleased.

     “Sonofabitch Broin. Knows damn well I don’t fucking take patients no more and yet that goddamn bastard still does as he fucking pleases,” she said waspishly. She was carrying a leather sack under one thick arm and a wooden bowl in her hand. She dumped everything on the floor and sat down with a ‘hmph’.

     She took a moment then to finally notice Diarmuid and her eyes darted down to where he held the Mute’s hand. Like he had been scalded, he pulled his hands back into his own lap.

     “Well, are you going to be useless or are you going to fetch wood for the fire? I very well can’t fucking work in the dark, can I?” she snapped.

     Diarmuid didn’t dare waste a single second standing up and making for the door. He did spare a look back at the Mute but forced his feet to move towards the thickly sprinkled trees behind the woman’s house.

     He grabbed as many twigs for kindling as he could find immediately and even snapped a broken, dry branch into pieces he could carry. The loud crack of wood echoed through the forest and for a second, he panicked thinking about the tribesmen in the trees. There was only the calm silence of nightfall though and within five minutes he was returning to the house as the last of the light began to fade.

     Inside, the woman the Captain had called O’ Murchadha had begun laying things out on the open space of mattress in front of her and was grinding something together in the wooden bowl with a pestle.

     “Hurry up now,” she said without even looking up and Diarmuid slipped next to her to build the fire. She tossed a hunk of flint and a flat stone towards him and when he was done laying the wood the way Brother Ciarán had taught him, he sparked the twigs and dead leaves on the bottom.

     “Thank the heavens, some light finally,” she said as the flames began to crackle. Whatever paste she had concocted she deemed ready and put aside. A slightly wrinkled hand came up and she touched with small presses around the embedded arrow.

     “It belonged to Raymond De Merville,” Diarmuid said suddenly, earning himself a questioning glance from the woman. “It… it has three points.”

     “Ahh, yes,” she said calmly. “I had seen a similar tool before, long ago.”

     “Can anything be done?” he asked. Dread laced his blood and his heart felt as though it had crawled up into his throat.

     “Boy, I’ve spent my prime learning the Medical Compendium in Seven Books by heart in Jerusalem. I’ve mended more bones and battle wounds than you can imagine before you were even conceived. I’ll have to see how bad the hook’s entwined but I’m your best hope right now, let me tell you,” she finished, sounding insulted by his doubt.

     She was indeed his best hope, he had no doubt of that. All he could do was pray that the Mute’s wounds were not too severe.

     “Now move there, yes, near his head. Tilt it up a bit, yes like that. He could vomit while I do this and we cannot have him choke on it.”

     Diarmuid carefully adjusted the Mute’s head, resting it up in his lap as he wiggled close. He felt grounded to be holding the other man again and at least he could be somewhat useful, if only as a pillow. He stroked his fingers through the dark hair by the Mute’s temples and down behind his ears. Hopefully wherever he was, he could feel Diarmuid’s touch and know that he was not alone.

     The medicine woman picked the bowl back up and with her right hand, scooped the wet, brown paste up and began smearing it on the Mute’s skin around the metal piercing him.

     “What is that?” Diarmuid asked, ever curious.

     “This? Why, it’s a mixture of burlock, comfrey, yarrow, and meadowsweet oil. Good for wounds and bleeding,” she stated. Now that she was occupied she seemed to be in a little bit of a better mood. Enough that she had stopped cursing, thankfully.

     “Is he still breathing?” she asked. She sounded doubtful, eyeing the expanse of chest that seemed rather still while she slathered the mixture thickly.

     Diarmuid’s eyes whipped back to the Mute’s face. His mouth was slightly open but Diarmuid could not hear any breath. Cold panic washed over him like a sheet of rain but O' Murchadha spoke again.

     “Use the inside of your wrist, boy,” she said. When all she got in response was a puzzled look, she rolled her eyes. Diarmuid supposed she was used to having a more trained set of hands to help her work. “Can you feel his breath?”

     Diarmuid picked his hand up off the Mute’s neck and nervously tilted his wrist so that it almost pressed against the older man’s parted lips. His heart found its pace again when a little, warm rush of air brushed over the sensitive, pale spot of skin. It tickled him when another rush of air touched his skin again.

     “Yes,” he sighed. “It is light, but still steady.”

     “A small hope,” she replied.

     He watched as the medicine woman wiped her hand off with a spare piece of cloth next to her and began rummaging through her leather bag. She pulled out a long, thin steel blade that sparkled with red, glowing light from the fire. The intricate design of the handle gave it a foreign, ancient look but it was well kept and sharpened. She placed the pointy tip right next to the metal of the arrow and Diarmuid could not help but gasp when he realized what she was about to do.

     “If you’re squeamish boy, you’d best look away,” she said sternly. Without pause, she tipped the blade down and it pierced through the ointment and skin like nothing. She created a small incision, pulling towards her on the Mute’s side. A small amount of blood welled up between the thick substance but not nearly the amount Diarmuid would have expected.

     “If it’s twist, then there won’t be much use trying,” she said on a sigh. Much to Diarmuid’s horror, she sunk two fingers into the slit she made. She focused with held breath as she worked her digits inside and after what felt like ages, she began using the handle of the tool to tip it near her fingers.

     “It feels mostly free,” she grunted.

     Blood was pouring in gushing pulses as she nudged the metal out with methodical ease. The thick, iron scent of blood soaked the enclosed, warm space and made Diarmuid’s stomach roll with nausea. He was forced to turn his head from the sight. In his mind, all he could see was Brother Ciarán at the post, his insides being dragged out by Raymond De Merville. He would forever be haunted by that sight, he knew it, and he could not bare to think of it now as O' Murchadha worked on the Mute.

     With a thunk, the metal rod hit the floor. The three points on the end were coated in blood and a puddle formed beneath the instrument. Diarmuid despised the piece of metal. It deserved to be at the bottom of the ocean as well.

     “I’m going to close him up, but then it’s in the hands of your God,” she stated simply. “How is his breathing?”

     Diarmuid picked his hand up to check again and blessedly there was the warm flutter of breath against his skin. It was perhaps a little softer but still rhythmic.

     “It’s not as strong as before,” he replied, frightened. She didn’t seem too alarmed though.

     “Well, then let’s get him stitched up as quick as possible,” she said, cleaning off her wet hands on the rag beside her. “Break off an arm's length of this,” she instructed as she tossed Diarmuid a spool of thread from her bag. She also pulled out a small, carved wooden box similar in fashion to the blade and opened it. Nestled inside were a line of thin needles made from small, bleached bird bones. Taking the piece of thread from Diarmuid, she laced the needle with ease and reached to pinch together the skin of the Mute’s abdomen. With a firm hold on the slippery, bloody flesh she pierced the needle through and started pulling the skin back together again.

     Diarmuid could not believe that she had actually gotten the hook free but the Mute was bleeding a fair amount now. The woman had to reach over for the rag from time to time and wipe away the claret liquid so she could see while she methodically sutured.

     “We got off to a harsh start,” she said. Her tone was soft in a way Diarmuid had never expected from her previously. She kept her gaze focused but stitching a man back up seemed no harder than mending a tear in a shirt for her nimble fingers. “My name is Africk,” she offered. “What’s your name?”

     “Diarmuid…” he answered.

     “And what’s his name?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

     Diarmuid hesitated. “I...I don’t know,” he whispered.

     Strangely though, Africk barked out one dry laugh. “You don’t have to lie to me, boy. I’m old enough to know what I see. He is yours, no?”

     “W-What?” he gasped.

     “Yours. As you are his, correct?” The corner of her lips turned up and blood rushed to Diarmuid’s face when he realized what she was implying. It felt like his heart had skipped a crucial beat and his breath hitched loudly in the quiet room. Africk let out a chuckle while she stitched.

     “My husband died at sea ages ago. Another lifetime it feels like some days, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the face of love,” she said, teasing the younger man now for certain.

     Diarmuid knew he should say something to correct her but something about the way she had said it was ringing in his head. Was that not the perfect way to describe how he had felt for so long? The Mute was his as much as he was the Mute’s. The pair had been nearly inseparable the past five years and he could not deny the intrinsic pull; the way both of them could feel the orbit of the other and the way their eyes would search out and linger as if the other would disappear if too far away.

     Africk’s words had tumbled something loose in his thoughts and again worry bloomed in his chest for his friend. It was a relief to see that she was almost done though.

     Diarmuid watched fascinated until her fingers finally came to a stop. She reached over and with the blade, broke the last bit of thread. She wiped what blood still pooled on his skin with little pats but she was scanning over his frame while she did it, half paying attention. Her gaze landed on the Mute’s hip next to her and she put the rag down to trace her fingers along the wool of his trousers.

     “The material was pierced here,” Africk said. It was hard to see, but little pinpricks had broken the fabric and tiny dots of blood had soaked in. She began untying the leather cord along the side of his pants, pulling it through the grommets and revealing the stretch of skin from his stomach down to mid thigh.

     Diarmuid’s face turned bright red as she exposed the side of his groin where Diarmuid could see the nest of dark curls that surrounded his genitals. He tried to avert his eyes completely but it was hard not to look at the massive expanse of purple-black skin along the Mute’s hip. Along with the bruising were several bloody dots where the skin had been punctured.

     “Hmmm,” she hummed as she placed both hands along the junction of his hip and applied varying pressure, sometimes adjusting her hands slightly and pressing again. “He could very well have a broken hip but perhaps the bone is only bruised. We’ll have to wait and see.”

     Africk reached for the bowl again and scooped up the last of the mixture. She massaged it into the skin of his hip and gave one last swipe over her line of stitches for good measure. Diarmuid was thankful when she covered the Mute back up even though she didn’t bother to do the lacing again. He knew well enough that he had the same parts between his legs but still it didn’t help the nervous way his heart thumped.

     “Where are you from?” Africk asked. She was placing all of her things back into her leather bag.

     “Kilmannán. Up on the coast,” he replied.

     “You’re a good ways from home then. You’ll be needing a place to stay while he heals I imagine,” she said, her tone serious. Diarmuid swallowed around the dryness in his throat and nodded.

     “And I can assume that you’ve got no sort of payment for my services…”

     Diarmuid opened his mouth but then immediately shut it. She wasn’t wrong. He had absolutely nothing that he could give her in exchange for her work. Africk seemed unsurprised by his lack of response and nodded to herself as she dropped the messy rags into the now empty bowl and eased herself to her feet.

     “Well, I’ll offer what doctoring I can if he lives through the night and I’ll help you bury him proper if he doesn’t, but that’s about all the charity I’ve got to offer. You want to eat, you help me hunt. You want shelter for you and yours, then you help me keep it.”

     “That is only fair. I offer my servitude gladly,” Diarmuid answered sincerely.

     “Good,” she huffed out, opening the door and standing in the entry. “You can start tomorrow by scrubbing those cloths.” She turned and left, leaving the door open but returned a moment later. She brought him a small pitcher of water and he took it gratefully.

     “The well’s three houses that way,” she said pointing out the door, “you need more, fetch it for yourself. If he awakes though, rouse me immediately. He’ll be needing a tincture of white dead nettles as soon as he can drink.”

     “Yes ma'am,” he answered. “I cannot thank you enough.”

     “Yeah well, that mongrel Broin likes to call me the town bitch so next time you see him, you tell him otherwise,” she said as she left and shut the door.

     Now that she was gone, aching loneliness crept into Diarmuid’s heart. Since yesterday he had lost everyone except for the man beside him. He felt completely exhausted and his eyelids felt weighted, but the last thing he wanted to do was sleep. He feared that when he woke, he'd find that the Mute had passed during the night. Then he'd be truly alone.

     Instead of laying down, he made sure the Mute’s head rested comfortably on the mattress and sat with his back up against the wall next to him. He managed to sit up with the remainder of the fire in the hearth but once it was at last dark, he drifted off by accident.


	3. Just Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I couldn't get to the computer last night. Enjoy!

     Diarmuid’s eyes snapped open and his head whipped up in the dim room. Bright morning light spilled through the small cracks in the door frame and window, threatening to burst into the shadows but remained restrained. His neck ached and he stretched his legs back out with stiff movements, back cracking while pins and needles tickled his legs but he knew they would fade.

     All he cared about was the gentle rise and fall of the Mute’s chest. The older man was still fast asleep but Diarmuid felt a rush of relief at the steady way his friend breathed. His eyes scanned the Mute’s frame. The brown, herbal paste had dried on his skin but Diarmuid found his gaze drawn back to the Mute’s chest.

     The skin on his pectoral muscles was littered with silver lines of scars and it was fascinating the way they moved with the expanding of his lungs. A strong desire to touch him there, on the powerful muscles where underneath his heart thumped, had Diarmuid flush at the fierceness of the wish. The last thing he should be doing was staring at his friend while he fought for his life.

     He made his sore body stand. It was already daylight and he wanted to wash the cloths like Africk had told him. Bowl of rags in hand he slipped out into the fresh, morning air.

     The door to the main house flung open and Africk’s frizzy hair came popping outside.

     “You, come here,” she commanded, making Diarmuid gulp and inch inside after her.

     The house inside was jam-packed full of odds and ends. Large tapestries covered two wooden walls with vivid, dyed colors. Herbs, onions, and garlic hung in bundles from the criss-crossing beams overhead, propping the thatch up. Shelves and shelves contained jars, bottles, sachets, and small, wooden boxes that contained a slew of liquids and nostrums. A meager bed covered in woolen quilts stood in one corner raised off the floor next to a table and a glowing, stone hearth. The scents of rosemary and thyme permeated the space and gave the whole house a mysterious, cloying feel.

     Africk went over to the bed, easing herself down to the floor with a grunt and dragged out a large chest tucked underneath. The top was filmed with dust and the hinges moaned as she cracked it open.

     She rummaged and Diarmuid waited patiently until she hoisted herself back up on creaky knees and offered him a fistful of clothes which she shook to pull the wrinkles out.

     “You’ll be needing to wash up so take these,” she said, making him accept the offering into his arms. “You can use the river. Wash your things and those rags and bring them back. We’ll place them on the drying rack.”

     Diarmuid’s head tipped down to examine the articles of clothing in his arms. Africk pushed past him to the hearth, stoking the flames with a poker and speaking as she readjusted the logs in a swirl of loose embers.

     “The shirt was my husband’s, so it’ll be large no doubt, but the trousers were my son’s and should do just fine.”

     “Your son?” he asked quietly.

     “Aye, he left when he was your age, mayhaps a year or so older.”

     “Where did he go?” Diarmuid questioned, although after the words left his mouth he worried that maybe he should not have asked.

     “Left for Normandy,” she replied easily even though most around these parts seemed to detest the Norman-French invaders. With a sigh, she sat down in the one chair by the table and eyed the young monk with curiosity. “With his bride, no less. I cannot know, but a mother likes to imagine that he’s gifted with good land and a bushel of babes that will carry his blood. The blood of his father.”

     Diarmuid nodded. He guessed that all mothers must feel that way, not that he could remember his.

     “Go. There’s much to do and when you finish, we’ll eat and get to work.”

 

     ~*~

 

     It was not so much waking up as it was a disorientating crescendo of agony. One moment there was nothing and the next, consciousness blossomed and the Mute’s body sent pulsing signals of sensations through his nerves. He had not yet opened his eyes but he took note of air slipping into his lungs, his heartbeat in his ears, and a bone-deep ache that he could not pinpoint for it radiated waves of pain that were still too overwhelming to process.

     “Sal Ammoniac usually does the trick. If he’s not in perpetual sleep, he should come around shortly,” a woman’s voice said next to him off in the swimming darkness. He caught about half the words but his head was still too addled to piece together what the voice had said.

     “Take these and mash that all together, yes, just like that,” the same voice spoke. He finally realized that the sound was coming from his right and he lolled his head to the side although it was difficult to drag himself out of the mucky swamp of deep sleep.

     “Ah, see boy, he’s coming to. A man with scars like these has known these horrors before. They make one stronger.”

     The Mute sluggishly realized that the voice was speaking of him. What was happening? Where was he and who could be speaking? The wave of confusion flooding in finally pushed him to fully wake.

     The person speaking was a solid looking woman with a mop of grey, curly hair who was sitting on the floor next to him. She lifted a hand and placed it on the Mute’s forehead as he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

     The touch was warm and gentle and he relaxed into the soothing gesture although he had no idea who this strange woman was. Despite the pain and exhaustion that weighed heavy on his entire form, he felt immense relief that he was even alive. Memories of the boat had faded into a hazy dream that could have happened years ago or even in another lifetime.

     But yet…

     His eyes darted and he managed to twist his head from her hand in search.

_He’s here._

     Sitting on his left side was Diarmuid, but for a second the Mute was astonished how different he seemed.

     For the first time, he saw Diarmuid out of the black robes he wore at the monastery. A large, ivory sweater made of thin wool draped over him; the baggy, long sleeves shoved up to his elbows where they would not hang off his hands. His legs were clothed in brown linen, knees patched with worn leather. The light tones brought out the warm color of his freshly-washed face and Diarmuid watched the Mute gaze at him right back with awe on his young features.

     “Relax, warrior,” the woman said beside him even though he kept his attention on Diarmuid. “Your kin is here and we’ll mend your bones.”

     A gorgeous flush stained Diarmuid's face and he dropped his eyes down to the bowl and pestle he held in his lap. His reaction gave the Mute something to ponder.

     “You’ve slept through the daylight but we must have you take this. Here, drink.” The woman's large hand cradled the back of his skull and he let her lift his head as she placed a cup to his lips.

     Cold splashes of water soothed the desert of his mouth and after a couple of gulps he noticed the bitter after-taste of herbs.

     “Slowly, or you’ll be ill,” she advised. He finished off the cup carefully and she rested him back down.

     “Take the cloth, dampen it and wipe away the dry salve,” she directed Diarmuid, handing him a bit of scrap fabric from beside her. “Be mindful of the sutures but be sure to work the new mixture onto the skin well when you clear the rest.”

     Diarmuid placed the bowl down and diligently did as the woman ordered. With timid touches, he began to swipe at the stretch of coated skin on the Mute’s abdomen. The little presses of damp cloth ached deep in his core but he had felt worse and tried to keep his face neutral, knowing full well that Diarmuid was watching him closely for signs of discomfort.

     Red-purple bruises revealed beneath the paste and Diarmuid was methodical with his work until all was clear. With his fingers dipped in liniment, Diarmuid painted the stretch of skin around the stitching and used feather-light touches against the sealing wound itself. The fresh salve was icy feeling on his skin but then again every part of him felt so warm in the heated room.

     “Now tell me, how does your leg feel?” the medicine woman asked.

     “Ma’am,” Diarmuid interrupted, “he does not speak, he is mute.”

     There he was, ever at the older man’s defense. If only he knew the abominable deeds the Mute had done during the crusade-- the amount of _blood_ split by his own two hands under the mighty title of Christ.

     "Is that so?” she asked, huffing a skeptical laugh. “How interesting.”

     This woman saw far and deeply.

     “Well then, do you think you can bend your knee for me?” she asked, reaching across to grasp the joint of his left knee.

     With her guiding hands, he lifted the weight of his leg. Immediate pain radiated along the length of his limb and up into his gut, but the joint bent when the muscle tugged. She pushed his bent leg outward to test his flexibility but seemed pleased and lowered his leg back down.

     “Not broken, but I would figure it’d be a few more days before you can put full weight on it-- to be safe. Do not miss here too, boy,” she said, peeling the cloth from his hip and uncovering the dark mass of contusions that had spread even wider during the night.  

     Diarmuid's mouth parted and his eyes flashed back and forth between the woman and the Mute's hip next to him. He forced his face neutral again while she didn't notice and blood flushed the tips of his ears.

     The formidably shy look on his red face was adorable yet the Mute still considered taking the cloth from his hand and sparing him the embarrassment. The medicine woman however took each of the Mute's hands, rubbing at every nick and cut on them with a fluff of bog cotton soaked in a brown liquid that stung his sores.

     Diarmuid’s face set in determination and while the medicine woman looked the Mute over with her astringent in hand, he set to cleaning off the dried salve.

     When complete, the cloth fell to the side and Diarmuid reached towards the wooden bowl. He dipped his hand back into the liniment and placed it on the top of the Mute's hip bone where the bruise was highest. He pulled his hand down along the side of the Mute's leg smoothly yet the pressure was far more painful there than his stomach and he grunted at the staggering soreness.

     Diarmuid’s eyes snapped up to his, hesitation on his face before he steeled himself and tried again. This time when he placed his hand in the same spot as before he dragged his touch even slower, even lighter and this time the ache was only a dull throb. Satisfied that time by the other man’s ease he continued on his newly set pace.

     The next pass he started near the inside of the Mute's thigh and inched upward infinitesimally on the thick cords of muscles.

     “Alright, the rest of you seems fine enough,” the healer declared, sitting back with one last dab at his knuckles. The Mute ripped his eyes from Diarmuid's hand and watched the woman pack up her leather sack on the floor. If he did not distract himself he feared he would grow hot and heavy between his legs from the warm touch despite his aching body.

     “Are you hungry? You missed supper,” she questioned as she stood but the Mute shook his head. “Fine then, but tomorrow we will have to get something into you.”

     Diarmuid finished and the grey-haired woman leaned over the Mute's body to check. Apparently pleased with his good work, she nodded and covered the Mute's skin back up.

     “And _you’ll_ wash those again,” she said to Diarmuid, motioning a hand to the cloths.

     “Yes ma’am.”

     “Good,” she replied, patting Diarmuid’s shoulder as she shuffled past him. “Rest well then,” she finished and then she was gone.

     The fire crackled, little pops of fresh wood bursting in the heat, and the two men watched each other in a moment that thrummed with unspoken energy.

     “Are you still thirsty?” Diarmuid asked, breaking the quiet lingering in the medicine woman’s quake. With a tired blink, the Mute nodded and Diarmuid picked up a pitcher nearby to refill the cup.

     Leaning up enough to drink, even with Diarmuid’s assistance, was a painful endeavor but the Mute just huffed a heavy breath out and gratefully drank.

     “Her name is Africk O’ Murchadha, this is a part of her house,” Diarmuid explained while the Mute finished off the water. “The Captain took us back to his village last night and she agreed to help but…” he started, a sadness on his face.

     “It is just us now,” Diarmuid said softly.

     The Mute gave him a questioning look and Diarmuid's face fell as he looked away. His mouth opened and closed for a heartbeat and he shook his head, upset at himself.

     “The relic is lost in the sea now and it’s all my fault,” he rushed out, breath hitching. He glanced back at the Mute and tears were welled up in his eyes. He looked so very lost and distressed and it hurt the older man deeply to see him so. “Cathal was struck by the longbowman’s arrow,” he explained through a tight throat. “And Brother Geraldus… is gone too.”

     “I was so afraid you would never wake,” he whispered in confession.

     The Mute reached up to cup the side of Diarmuid's face, fingers entwining in the soft curls near his ear. He pulled him down close and Diarmuid moved easily with the crusader's touch. The Mute lifted his head up, resting his forehead against Diarmuid’s, the same soothing gesture as he had done for him in the woods.

     A small sob hitched out of Diarmuid’s chest at the contact and his hand came up to the Mute’s collarbone, fingers holding tight onto his shoulder. Tears started to fall and who could blame him? The events he had witnessed over the past handful of days were filled with such terror.

     The Mute did the only thing that sprung into his mind, the only thing that he could think to do to ease Diarmuid's stricken heart.

     He closed the space and kissed him.

     Had the boy even seen a kiss before? There were the moments where Brother Ciarán would kiss his rosary during prayers or a press of lips to the flesh of Christ during Communion but he doubted Diarmuid had ever seen two people kiss in a moment of passion.

     So he took his time, showing him with soft, little presses how their lips fit together perfectly. The Mute did not dare push further, already worried that the boy would flee like a startled animal in his hold.

     Diarmuid’s hand held on just as tightly to his shoulder though, neither pushing nor pulling, just feeling the Mute beneath him. His crying had ceased from the sudden distraction and his breathing began returning to normal moment by moment with tiny hitches.

     The Mute reached up to hold Diarmuid's face with both hands. He let his thumbs swipe the tears off his cheeks and under his tired eyes. Diarmuid's wet eyelashes were fanned out on his tinged cheeks but would flutter after each pause to stare down at the Mute’s mouth every time their lips parted, even a little.

     In the back of the Mute’s mind he knew he should stop, better yet should never have begun at all, but it was too late for that now. Just holding the young man close, their skin touching as they shared breath between the most dearest of seconds while their lips caressed, had a profound calming effect on his own blood pounding through his heart. Everything in his being told him to keep his small friend close, safe and protected, but he knew better and made himself finally stop.

     The Mute nuzzled the side of Diarmuid’s face with his own as the young monk swallowed down the last of his uneasy breathing. He shifted over what he could with a wince and easily pulled Diarmuid down next to him, laying so his head rested on the Mute’s shoulder. The older man pressed his face to the soft, brown curls and placed one last kiss on the crown of his head. With one arm he held the boy flush to his side and the other he reached across his chest to Diarmuid’s neck. His thumb made soothing, slow strokes from the spot behind his ear along the delicate line of his neck and back up.

     As the low firelight danced along the walls, he could feel the tension ebb away from Diarmuid’s muscles and the slowing of his breath as it ghosted over his chest. Regardless of his short awakening, the Mute still felt as though he could sleep. However, he did not follow Diarmuid into slumber right away. Instead, he laid awake for some time, thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm outlining some further chapters and uhhhhh, let's just see how explicit this gets, huh? I could always use recommendations and comments! <3


	4. The Riverside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, new tags!

     In the beginning, it had taken both Africk and Diarmuid to help him sit completely upright, leaning his back on the wall as he panted through the shocking, painful protest of his broken body trying to work. Same thing for standing, and walking on his own was certainly out of the question. 

     After two days Africk produced a long, straight branch of dense oak, forked at one end and smoothed of its bark. It was a bit short but she was still able to teach him how to lean his left side into it, keeping most of the pressure off that side as he hobbled. She would watch him like a hawk though, barking at him with a swat to his arm if he didn’t move carefully enough for her liking. The Mute was grateful to be up off the ground for certain but he knew he would feel restless until he could actually walk on his own again.  

     Now, he rested on the slope stretched above the river, tucked in by the tangle of trees and shrubs that had tried to work their roots as close to the slippery, sandy embankment as possible. With Africk and Diarmuid's help he had limped his way to the river but stayed behind on the grass to sit and stretch his leg out. From his vantage, he had the perfect spot to look down and see the pair at the water.

     The medicine woman was standing at the water’s edge, wooden pail between her feet. The bucket was filled halfway with river water and covered by a wood lid. She was waving her hands expressively as she directed Diarmuid, who she had standing in the water up to his knees. 

     Today, he was wearing the clothes that Africk had given him. The Mute had thought after the first day that the boy would have gone back to his robes, but rather it was the opposite. He had only worn the black garment on wash day and when the new articles had dried, he had placed them back on. 

     Perhaps he had taken a liking to the new clothes, but the Mute considered as well that he was trying to blend in. The monk’s robes were conspicuous and the last thing that they needed was word of a small monk with a suspicious, injured man making way back to the French. Whatever the reason, the Mute still preferred them to the dreary, black cloth.  

     Currently, with Africk’s loud yet positive instructions, Diarmuid was hauling up two lines of netting that had been fastened to posts embedded in the shallow water. The nets themselves were not very wide but lengthy and took the small man several arm lengths to drag them back in from the current.

     The sheets of netting had been knitted tightly and every now and then a squiggly, black mass would emerge from under the surface. The eel, with it’s rope-of-muscle body caught in the netting would flail in the open air, squirming in on itself like a serpent as it struggled. 

     As swift as possible, Diarmuid would grasp the fish, slip it free, lean over and Africk would lift the cover off the bucket just long enough for the eel to drop inside. If he was successful, that was. Those little bastards were tricky indeed though. 

     When one very lively eel was freed from the net, it spasmed it’s slippery body with one, great heave. Diarmuid’s arms flailed in a scramble to catch the thing but he just barely dodged getting a slap to the face by it’s wet tail before it splashed back into the water. 

     Africk howled out laughing and even the Mute had to repress his laughter, although his shoulders still shook obviously with the effort. When he glanced back, Diarmuid was standing in the water, hands on his hips and wearing a pout, but it dissolved into a hint of a smile when he noticed the Mute chuckling as well. Blushing, he leaned over to begrudgingly pick the net back up.  

     It was lovely to sit there, enjoying the fresh air and downy grass beneath him. A light wind kept the air cool and the older man was very grateful for the thin, white linen shirt that Africk had given him. The top two buttons were undone and between the breeze and shade he savored the stunning, spring day. The Mute used his hands to massage the tight muscles of his thigh, for they tensed up fiercely when he had to force the muscles to carry him a long ways.

     Africk and Diarmuid worked until the last of the netting had been checked. Prize in hand, Africk began making her way back, ushering the boy out of the river finally. He followed her up the embankment, shaking the drops of water from his hands before wiping them on his pants. He had rolled the bottoms up to his knees but the last inch had still gotten soaked by the river. 

     “Not too bad for your first elvering but now, leave me in peace,” Africk said to the two of them as she approached the Mute's spot. “I have been upright before the sun even crept near the horizon and the lazy midday heat always drains me this time of day. I’ll rest for a spell and then we’ll prepare the congers for supper,” Africk said, shuffling past Diarmuid and the Mute on her way back to the house. 

     That was fine enough for him. He was in no hurry to make the frustratingly slow walk back to the house. Instead the Mute laid himself back, mindful of the slight ache still in his middle, and rested easy on the cool grass.

     Diarmuid sat down on the Mute’s right with a long sigh. It certainly seemed as though eel fishing had not been the Novice’s favorite thing to do and the Mute had to school the smirk off his own face. 

     They sat in silence for a minute but like always, Diarmuid had plenty to say for the both of them.

     “I wonder what it is like in Kilmannán right now,” Diarmuid mused as he watched the river move. “The air is cool in the shade of the woods but it feels too quiet without the ocean.”

     The Mute had not even noticed. To him, this whole country seemed too quiet. 

     “Do you think the rest of the Brothers are safe back at home?” Diarmuid turned to look down over at the Mute.

     He considered it, face serious in thought, before giving a soft nod. There was no reason to attack the monastery now that they did not protect the stone. Unless of course men came in search for him and Diarmuid, but that was unlikely. At least for now.

     “I hope so…” he said softly before turning his head back to the river. “I do miss home, but it is nice here too.” 

     He laid down like the Mute and their shoulders and arms brushed beside each other. A refreshing breeze swept up the side of the river-shore to them, swaying the branches and making the little speckles of sunlight between leaves shift and slide over their skin. 

     The past several nights, Diarmuid had slowly laid down beside the older man as though judging to see if he was allowed permission. Every time though the Mute would wrap his arms around him and hold the smaller man against him while he slept. However, they had not kissed since, not that the Mute did not think of it constantly though. 

     Like now for example, the Mute turned his head and stole a glimpse of the young monk. How effortless it would be to lean over and kiss him again, but the older man held painfully still.

     “What about you...” Diarmuid begun, turning his head as well. Those warm, brown eyes met the Mute's and he did not miss the way they flicked down to the crusader's mouth for a second.

     “Do you like it here?” he whispered into the space between them.

     The Deeps he couldn’t care less about if he was honest but right here beside Diarmuid, watching the sparkles of light play on his face under the green foliage, was divine. The Mute gave another nod in response.

     Diarmuid leaned in quick and suddenly his lips were against the Mute’s, a tight line that pressed too hard in his nervous attempt. 

     The hanging tension that had lingered for days finally snapped and the older man reached over to cup Diarmuid’s neck, thumb resting along the bottom of his jaw where the Mute could hold him still as he tried to readjust their mouths into a better kiss. Their lips slotted together, softer this time and a content sound hummed quietly out of the young brunet. The beautiful sound echoed in the Mute’s head and shot down his spine like lightning.

     He rolled onto his good hip and Diarmuid eagerly mimicked the motion, turning so they faced each other with entangling limbs. The Mute was quick to wrap his left arm around the smaller man and tug him fiercely against his own body even if he ached a bit still. Feeling the warm press of Diarmuid along his chest and hips only made him want to feel more though. 

     Diarmuid’s arm wrapped around his back, clinging onto the broad man with desperation. It was one thing knowing how forcibly he wanted Diarmuid but feeling how eager he was in return was something else entirely.

     The raven-haired man flicked his tongue along the seam of his lips and Diarmuid opened his mouth instinctively for his advances. The Mute licked into the warm space as he sought out the boy’s tongue and Diarmuid sucked in a small gasp that was cut short as their mouths sealed together.

     For a moment the smaller man was frozen in surprise but once he felt the sensuous and pleasurable slide of their tongues he melted into the new technique. He kissed back with shy, little licks of his own.

     It was possible that the taste of the Novice's lips and tongue was the best thing the Mute had ever found. When the crusader let Diarmuid catch his breath between their slow, exploring kisses he could not help but stay close. Even the very breath that left his lungs was sweet in a bone-deep way.

     The Mute's hand ran down Diarmuid's spine to the small of his back. The soft knit of his shirt had risen up and he felt the burning-hot, smooth skin there. How could he not feel more after that tantalizing touch?

     His broad, calloused hand slipped under Diarmuid's shirt, up the tight muscles of his back. His fingers admired the lines of shoulder blades and the ridge of spine that dipped down to those tiny hips and waist. It felt as though if he placed both hands on the young brunet's hip bones that his fingers would be close to touching.

     Diarmuid’s hips wiggled back slightly while they kissed but the older man slid his hand again to the small of his back and dragged him back against him. He could distinctly feel the hard line of the Novice’s erection against his leg and it spurred him on greatly. 

     He momentarily broke their kiss and propped himself up as much as he could, worming his arm pressed into the grass underneath Diarmuid’s neck to rest the boy’s head on his forearm. The better angle gave the Mute full access to Diarmuid’s tanned neck which he latched his mouth onto near the clavicle peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

     His lips and tongue massaged the sensitive skin there, scraping his teeth in a tease of a bite. Soft ‘ah’s huffed out of Diarmuid while the Mute blazed a trail along the slope of neck with hot, wet kisses. The smaller man’s hips jerked, pressing hard on the Mute’s leg every time a little tremor shook his body. 

     He was just as stiff as Diarmuid, incredibly aroused from the younger man in his arms. It had been over a decade since he had last touched someone else like this and the alluring feel and taste of the boy’s skin had him awfully hard. 

     He finished sucking a rosy, teeny spot above the fluttering pulse there on the Novice’s throat and pulled back. Diarmuid panted in his arms, blinking with half-lidded eyes as he waited to see what the larger man was going to do.

     The Mute mentally cursed his state. He greatly wanted to pin Diarmuid down beneath him and roll their hips together in delicious friction until they both came, but there was no way he’d be able to with his healing wounds.

     Instead, the Mute reached his hand down between them, pushing Diarmuid’s arm out of the way to be able to cup the outline of the Novice’s stiff cock through his pants. Diarmuid sharply gasped and his hand flew to the older man’s shoulder where his fingers dug with strength into the fabric of the shirt.

     The Mute did not remove his hand, simply keeping the bit of massaging pressure to see if he had perhaps pushed too far. He watched Diarmuid closely as the boy’s head whipped down to see the older man touching him and then back up to his face. The Mute had certainly shocked him, but there was no fear on his face. The crusader felt the tipping moment when Diarmuid actually relaxed back, surrendering to his touch and sighing out a shaky moan.

     Feeling the hard length under his palm was exciting enough but the Mute wanted to see if he could drag that bewitching sound out of Diarmuid again.

     Reaching in, the Mute wrapped his hand around Diarmuid’s length and managed to work him free just enough from the pants that barely clung to his narrow hips. Diarmuid was hot and rigid in his palm, and the older man admired the slender, beautifully flushed cock that fit nice and snug in his massive hand. 

     He had to use his non-dominant hand which was somewhat tricky but he still had enough dexterity to set upon pleasuring the young monk with deliberate pumps of his fist. 

     Diarmuid's hand shifted from his shoulder to the wide muscles of his neck, clinging on like he was afraid the other man would pull away and simply leave at any point. He surged up and initiated another deep kiss that the Mute happily returned.

     While they kissed, the older man slowed his movements. He massaged the slick tip with his thumb, lazily smearing the precome and teasing the sensuous frenulum. 

     The effect was instantaneous. 

     Diarmuid’s breath froze in his chest with a hitching gasp and the Mute broke their languorous kiss to watch the smaller man fall apart underneath him. The young brunet’s body tensed up with a jolt, his eyes clenched shut and mouth open although he produced no sound.

     The older man felt the way Diarmuid’s erection flexed in his grip before the first pulses of come started and the Mute fisted his length to milk him through his orgasm with steady, easy strokes. The warm liquid dripped between his fingers and into the patch of bronze curls of Diarmuid’s groin. 

     He kissed the boy's face lightly, sprinkling soft touches of his lips on cheekbones, temples, and jawline while Diarmuid floated back down. His breathing returned in a rush that calmed with relaxed, sweet moans that faintly sighed out of him.

     The Novice looked so gorgeous, flushed and euphoric from his orgasm and the sight made the older man's own erection twitch with a need that was approaching critical.

     Reservations completely gone now, he let go of Diarmuid and used his messy hand to untie the front of his pants, wrapping his fingers around his cock with a sigh of relief. 

     Pulling it out, he pumped his hand at a faster pace than before as he chased his own pleasure down quick. His hand was still slippery from Diarmuid's release and he could feel the heat pooling in his stomach and thighs in almost no time.

     Diarmuid reached his hand up tentatively and touched the head of the Mute's cock as the older man worked himself closer to the edge. Soft fingertips touched the tacky, dripping slit and rubbed down to that same spot the crusader had just taught him was packed with nerves. 

     It felt good, but the sight of Diarmuid's fingers slick and exploring on his skin was what actually pushed him over and had him coming fiercely. 

     Both his and Diarmuid’s hands got the brunt of his orgasm, making both of them a mess but neither cared from the rushing blood laced with adrenaline. He looked up to see Diarmuid gazing at him with reverence. The Mute’s heart lurched weird in his chest for a beat and he leaned down to kiss the brunet well. 

     The Mute would most definitely need the young monk’s help washing up at the water but he couldn’t be bothered to worry about it as they laid, sharing peaceful presses of lips without any urgency now that they were both satiated.

     Neither wanted to part but with time they straightened themselves out and Diarmuid slipped under his arm and helped him up. 

 

     ~*~

 

     The trio had crafted dinner together, preparing the fresh eels before fashioning an open fire out front of Africk’s house. The medicine woman had dragged her chair out by the flames and Diarmuid and the Mute sat near her on the ground. 

     Dinner long over, the group merely loitered around the radiating heat now that the chill of night had completely settled into the dark village. Diarmuid had sat himself beside the Mute, pressed against his side in a way that he had never done before. Near yes, but the way he kept flush along the older man’s body was open and blatant unlike before.

     If Africk, puffing on a pipe she had packed deep, glanced over at them with smug looks he tried to pretend as if he did not notice.

     At some point, Diarmuid had leaned his head on the Mute’s shoulder with a terrific yawn where he had now finally fallen asleep sitting up. Ever so carefully, the Mute wrapped his arm around the young monk to prevent him from falling over.

     “You know,” Africk started with a puff of wispy smoke as she leaned in, “Broin told me. About what happened at the coast?  _ You  _ killed Raymond De Merville, correct?”

     The Mute solemnly nodded, watching Diarmuid’s sleeping face pressed into his chest and shoulder.

     “The Baron will be in an uproar no doubt. Especially considering Raymond was his eldest living son after what happened in Constantinople…”

     The Mute’s eyes snapped to hers and her searching eyes scanned his face for the second before he looked away again.

     “Mac Lochlainn from the east side, house perched by the willow? Yes, he says he saw the Normans traveling northeast from Murntown. There’s a good chance that they won’t come anywhere close to The Deeps but if they’re moving camp then they will be sharing these woods for certain.”

     “It would be harmful for all of us if they were to find you here…” she said with remorse.

     The Mute nodded strongly. He knew the death and destruction that would rain down from the knights and he could not bare to think of them coming here to this tranquil hamlet.

     “Whatever may happen will happen,” she said sagely as she casually leaned back in the chair. “When the time comes, we’ll be sure to get you both well packed for your trek home, worry not for now. Perhaps you should take him off to bed. I’ll snuff the flames when I’m done with my smoke but I believe I’ll sit up for a while longer…”

     The Mute was willing enough to grant her the privacy she wished for and he gently roused the smaller man. Diarmuid blinked sleepily up at him, bewildered for a second before he remembered where he was. The older man stroked the side of his face, pushing a curl of hair out of his eyes and the smaller man smiled as he fully woke. 

     Diarmuid stood up with a stretch before he helped the older man up as well. Africk offered quiet well-wishes and the pair left her alone with the last of the smoldering, pink coals. 


	5. Grim Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wished you could go back to high school history class to crack open one of those ridiculously large textbooks to do research for fun? Yeah, me neither lol, but it was actually really interesting trying to learn enough to get this next chapter how I wanted. Thanks so much to everyone reading still! <3
> 
> ******** I also want to warn of MENTIONS of rape--NONE actually in this chapter just the historical mentioning of, but please be advised, thank you.

     The chain-mail thunked loudly in the corridor against the plates of steel slung over the Sergeant as he walked. The sword at his hip was heavy but in a deep reassuring way. A warrior could fight with any weapon they were handed, but man still took comfort in things familiar. This sword had in fact carried him and his men through those guarded shores and had drunk more than its share of blood in his wake. Now, as his heart pounded with unease, he took comfort in the grip of the handle where his hand rested in a guarded pose that he hoped read more as casual.

     He followed closely behind the Knight in front of him, who lead them down the smooth, sandstone hallway. The _Chevalier_ was wearing the iconic, white robes with red cross emblazoned upon them and he was accompanied by two of his squires and a personal lay servant, surrounding the Sergeant as they made their way through the villa towards the open courtyard inside. The air was stifling and dormant, making the heat oppressive in the midday stretch and he felt encircled by the men with their closeness.

     “Desmarais said you fought like an ox out there yesterday. We need a man with an arm like yours.” The Knight spoke in English yet his accent was hard to understand and thick with French. “He said you were _un_ _forgeron_ , is that correct Sergeant?”

     Something about the casual smile on this man’s face, as if he were on holiday-- not in the heart of the siege, made the Sergeant’s skin crawl with detestation. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms prickled regardless of the sweltering air.

     “Yes, sir,” he simply replied.

     “You speak French, no?” the Knight asked, not even turning his head back to the Sergeant.

     “ _Oui, monsieur_ ,” the Sergeant replied with a grunt.

     “That’s good,” the Knight said, slipping into French. “There is a great message to be made here today and God will thank you for your work.” He did not specify what work was to be done, but he made the reward sound fulfilling and just for the cause.

     Dread knotted the Sergeant’s stomach, for he had seen how this man had lead the other _Chevaliers_ through the city and their path was violence incarnate. The destruction of the great statues, the burning of the Library, the looting of homes-- it all paled in comparison to the hungry beast of rage let loose on this city under the name of the holy crusaders. Surely God must have turned his eye to this sacred place for the slaying of men and women alike, the raping of the nuns in the cathedrals, the slaughtering of babes from their mother’s arms… it was obscene and blasphemous beyond words.

     They reached the open courtyard, dirt clouds kicking up under the heavy footfalls of their boots. The space was barren, devoid of decor and the sun beat down with almost painful rays in the vast space. Anything of value had already been plundered from every home and a notable abode like this one? It was a miracle that the pillars even stood still.

     Not a single other soul could be seen besides the band of them but the streets outside the villa walls were noisy with horses, the clanking of metal and distant shouts. The sounds echoed off the high walls and it was like they were sectioned off from the war itself in the oppressive silence they stood in.

     The Knight spun on his heel and turned to finally face the Sergeant.

     “This city has fought hard, that is for certain, but the blasphemers could not stop the swift hand of God nor the men they sent to do his bidding,” the Knight said with a gesture between the both of them. “It is our job today to make sure that they will not have the resources to fight again for a long time.”

     “Go,” the Knight said, turning to one of his squires, “fetch the first one.”

     The underling scurried off towards the western entrance of the court and away from sight. He was left with the others under the scrutinizing gaze of the _Chevalier._ He had not fought under this particular man’s orders before but he recognized the distinguished steel and iron which put this man many ranks above him.

     The Sergeant could feel the sweat running down his neck.

     “Alexios V will regret the choices that he made,” the Knight warned, his beady eyes hard-set and glistening with energy. What possibly else could they do to this ravished place?

     The heat crescendoed to a level where he could no longer tell if he was burning or freezing. The world swam with a lucid, hyper-awareness and suddenly all he could think was that he had to escape-- had to get as far away from here as possible.

     Something terrible was coming down that corridor. He knew it like he knew his own name yet he could not understand why.

     The Knight in front of him turned his head as the sound of the squire approaching grew louder but the Sergeant did not turn to look. His blood was ice in his veins, his skin on fire: too hot and too cold at the same time and a scream bubbled up in his diaphragm.

     It grew, crawling it's way up his throat, past his frantic beating heart and soon it would force its way out where he feared he might never stop screaming when-

 

     ~*~

 

     The Mute sat, bolting upright, and for a pregnant second he thought that he must have screamed out loud for his heart raced with harsh thumps and his lungs seemed completely devoid of oxygen. The moment strained on but he heard nothing as he slowly gained his bearings.

     He was alone on the stitched mattress, the gray morning light coming through the open window. A wet, cool air that threatened nearby rain permeated the small room and chilled the sweat coating the Mute’s bare chest. The space beside him was empty but that was common for the young monk always rose early. He simply stared at the blank space as he tried to pull air back into his chest with shaking huffs.

     It took what felt like an hour before the shivers wracking his body subsided and his skin was no longer clammy. The vivid images of his dream lingered, seared into his mind, but this was not the first time.

     The Mute reached over to the side and shook out his folded shirt, slipping it on. His abs protested when he raised his arms but mainly the stitches itched with a tremendous fierceness. Thankfully Africk had reassured that she would remove them today.

     Standing was a slow and meticulous process. He had gotten considerably more adept at using his good side to pick himself up off the ground, crutch still nearby for when he felt he could push off from the wall and actually breath again. The pain still soaked deep through the core of his bones and breathing could cause sharp stabs directly under his lungs if he was not careful. However, he had the luxury of moving unhurried and if nothing else, by the end of the process the ghosts staining his mind had mostly dissipated away.

     Opening the door prompted a wave of cold, damp air. Heavy fog curled through the trees and gray clouds blocked out the sun. It was as though the sky had dropped down and enclosed them in the storm clouds brewing.

     Diarmuid and Africk were sat together by a smoky fire. It appeared the dead wood had soaked enough condensation during the night to force the flames licking the logs to struggle.

     The young monk’s head picked up at the sound of the door and Africk chased his gaze as well. The Mute must not have looked as put together as he had hoped for the medicine woman quirked a brow and Diarmuid’s sweet face dropped into an expression of concern.

     The smaller man stood up and intercepted the crusader before he could get a few steps out. His eyes drifted over the older man’s face and even though he had never said a word to the boy, Diarmuid could still read him with spooky ease.

     “Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

     The Mute averted his gaze, nodding with a dismissive pass. Diarmuid still looked uncertain but the older man did not want the Novice to be concerned with his guilty dreams.

     He wrapped his arm around the young brunet’s back and pulled him in enough to place a kiss on his forehead. Diarmuid swayed into the motion and the Mute could tell that he was going to let the topic drop.

     The pair gathered around the crackling flame and he was grateful that Africk did not comment, although he knew by now that the older woman usually meant well enough.

 

     ~*~

 

     Africk had insisted that they both went for a walk. She had been pleased at his healing wounds as she had gently broken and tugged the sutures back out of his skin, yet she nagged the older man about his gait. She warned if he did not stretch out the tightened muscles on the recovering bone that his limp may never fully leave. Pushing the two men off towards the flat path along the river, Africk had made the small brunet promise to keep an eye on the Mute for her.

     The crusader moved conscientiously, attempting to walk with deliberate, slow movements that allowed him to give the muscles full range despite how each step ached. A little pain would be worth a proper recovery and Diarmuid did seem to be keeping an eye on his movements, although his attention was more from kind patience rather than Africk’s diligent scrutiny.

     At first Diarmuid had chatted nonchalantly, speaking of things that the medicine woman had taught him or of the people he had noticed in the village. It was always interesting for the Mute to hear how the younger man saw the world around him. He was very observant and had a wonderfully open mind that sought knowledge with a ravenous hunger.

     Eventually though, while the smaller man was telling the Mute which songbirds he thought sounded the most beautiful or the most wistful, Diarmuid glanced over to see the older man watching him with a soft smile. The Novice had blushed something fierce and he was shyly quiet for the next few minutes.

     The pale-gray sky grew sooty and an early darkness settled underneath the black clouds. The first, fat drops of rain started hitting the surface of the river before they broke through the treetops. The promise of rain had finally been delivered at last and now that the raindrops had begun, the sky let loose with a torrential deluge.   

     Knowing that he had to act fast, the Mute pulled Diarmuid along with him underneath a massive red cedar tree. Two cedars had grown together, finally seaming themselves together with time, leaving a peculiar hollow between the trunks just large enough to duck underneath and avoid the sheets of rain plummeting straight down. The day was thankfully windless otherwise they would have been pelted sideways with the downpour.

     There was not a lot of space under the trees and after the initial shock of the outburst of rain, Diarmuid pressed himself up close to the older man. The Mute was able to lean enough of his weight back against the tree to rest his leg some but he made sure to wrap his arms around the monk’s lower back and keep them close together, chest to chest.

     Diarmuid’s hands came up to rest on the Mute’s chest. The older man could see even in the dim light how the tips of his ears were pink to match the rosy hue of his cheeks. A bolt of lightning struck the ground close by and the boy jolted for a second in the older man’s embrace. The Mute stroked a hand warmly in comfort up and down the bumps of the boy’s spine, feeling each ridge over the aged fabric of his sweater.

     The lulling sound of pouring rain drenched the forest and he almost missed it when the brunet in his arms spoke.

     “Was it a nightmare this morning?” Diarmuid whispered. “Some nights you have the restlessness of bad dreams…”

     The Mute was taken aback for a moment. He had not known that they had been bad enough to disturb the smaller man’s rest as well.

     “I only ask…” Diarmuid began, staring at his hands where he fiddled with the collar of the Mute’s shirt anxiously, “Because I wish that there was some way for me to ease your mind.”

     It was not as easy as wishing the demons away, the Mute knew that already after all these years slaving away with hard work in the hopes to escape their persistence. Even if it was, the crusader did not believe that he would ever deserve the peace that forgiveness could bring. The fact that Diarmuid was so willing to dole it out though was fully indicative of his compassionate soul.

     “You chose to fight to save us on the beach. I could not imagine bravery such as yours. I…” Diarmuid’s eyes flicked up to his but the younger man could not hold the gaze. “I just want you to know that I would follow you wholly wherever we went.”

     The Mute let his thumb trace the line of Diarmuid’s jaw with a feather-light touch. His caress prompted the smaller man to close his eyes and he leaned his head into the Mute’s hand.

     The Mute might not deserve peace, but Diarmuid did, and the Mute might not deserve love, but that did not stop him from loving the monk. These things felt past his control.

     When Diarmuid opened his eyes up at the Mute expectantly, he tried to return the sentiment in his silent way; with a devoted kiss that he poured his own allegiance into.

     The rain around them pattered to a trickle, falling heavily off leaves with pregnant droplets. For even a split second, the warming sun peeked through the heavy fog but it was still weak from the storm.

     The Mute broke their embrace regretfully but it was time for them to make their return. That did not mean that he was not already planning on kissing Diarmuid again later tonight while they laid on their soft bedding back in the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since the first chapter I knew I wanted to go all the way back to the Crusades. I have already outlined further plans, but I would love to hear back any thoughts because I was a little timid to venture there~*


	6. Close Encounter

     After the morning start of helping Africk rekindle the fire, Diarmuid made off with his black habit in hand to wash up at the deep meander of the river. The alcove provided seclusion for the young man to strip down in the refreshing water to wash his clothes.

     The process was meditative and he worked with little concern or thought as he let the chore ease him into a relaxing stretch of soft, calm morning. The air was pleasantly dry now that the storm was long gone and the water felt cooling against the creeping heat that the day seemed to have in store. When he finished, he laid out the wet fabrics and waded deeper into the water up to his thighs to start cleaning himself with dragging scoops of water.

      Diarmuid wet his hair and shivered as the water drops coursed down his sun-warmed chest and back. He slicked the damp curls back and a rustling of movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention.

     He glanced up and his heart skipped a beat as he watched the Mute walking toward him with his slow, easy steps. He approached from the skirt of trees and Diarmuid could not help but notice how his own stomach fluttered as the older man's soft eyes took in the sight of him standing there in the water.

     He was painfully aware of his own nudity and his face felt hot, yet Diarmuid was curious and watched the Mute carefully.

     The older man approached the warm stones on the shore where the young brunet had placed his scrubbed, new clothes to start drying while he bathed. Holding Diarmuid's gaze, the Mute began undressing and placed his shirt and boots beside the laundry.

     Diarmuid felt as though he could spend forever tracing the lines of scars on the man’s chest with his eyes or perhaps his fingertips even. As the Mute unfastened his pants and began peeling them off as well, the young monk realized he was holding his breath.

     Feeling timid, Diarmuid dropped his eyes and halfheartedly tried to keep washing, if only to dispel some of the nervous energy. It was as though his eyes pulled themselves back however and he could not stop himself from looking at the man who constantly fascinated him.

     He approached Diarmuid slowly, slinking into the water and coming right up to the boy watching him. The Novice’s eyes drank in the full view of the crusader and he felt awe at the differences between their bodies.

     The Mute’s hands came up and rested softly on his sides, calloused palms warming the sensitive flesh of his rib cage. Those firm hands tugged ever so gently, pulling the small man into his space and Diarmuid went willingly. The Novice let his hands trail up the Mute's broad arms so he could hold onto the man's shoulders.

     Standing together in the river the pair slotted against one another, faces brushing as the Mute leaned down closer to Diarmuid, not quite kissing just yet.

     The skin on skin contact was so entirely new and almost overwhelming in a sense. The encompassing warmth that radiated into him from every electric place their bodies formed together felt more intimate than anything that Diarmuid had ever considered. The ways two people could enjoy the flesh were not notions that had permeated into the bubble of the monk’s small world until recent events, yet he shivered pleasantly in their powerful quake as he learned.

     The older man caught Diarmuid’s gaze with inquisitive eyes at the tremor, lips parted and oh so close but watching for any hint of fear.

     The Mute was everything that the French knights were and yet not. He was packed with brimming strength, robust fortitude, and deadly potential. Even so, the man Diarmuid had known ever since God had delivered him to their shore was considerate and soft-hearted. Brother Geraldus had surmised that the Mute chose to live with the monks in silence to atone, but Diarmuid could not imagine that the same violent rage that lived in those French soldiers lived inside his heart as well.

     The strength and capability? Yes. He had seen after all in the woods the ease in which the Mute was able to put the unsuspecting watch guard down with barely a struggle or strained breath. Never-mind the poised threat of the Mute's fist as he had been trapped in the warrior's bloodlust, but the last thing he felt there in the crusader’s arms was fear of him.

     Diarmuid let his hands slide across the Mute’s muscular chest and up to his neck, keeping the other man as close as possible to show he was not scared, not of him. He had to tilt his face upward to catch the Mute’s lips but when he did the larger man returned the kiss back warmly.

     Kissing the Mute was quickly turning into one of Diarmuid’s most favorite activities. The intimateness was addicting and the sweet way in which the older man poured his affection made the blood sing in the young monk’s veins.

     When the need to breathe overcame them, the Mute pulled away but he didn’t stay away for long.

     He showered kisses across Diarmuid’s shoulders and collarbones all while keeping their hips pressed together tightly. The Mute's mouth was hot and wet where it tasted his skin and the chafe from his beard as it scraped across the Novice's ivory flesh was thrilling.

     Left hand on the younger man’s lower back, the Mute dragged the other up his side to thumb the boy’s hardened nipple. Diarmuid sucked in a sweet, little gasp and twitched in his grip. The Mute could feel the way the monk was growing hard against his legs. He pulled his body away slightly but only so he could bend down to latch his mouth onto the pebbled flesh on Diarmuid’s chest.

     The sensation was immediately lovely and amplified the warmth pooling in Diarmuid's stomach. He was shocked at how acute the pleasure felt being dragged from the Mute’s massaging lips and flickering tongue. A surprised whimper crawled out of his throat with a hitch and the Mute growled lowly in his chest, a sort of response. He quickly switched sides on Diarmuid’s chest and provided the same treatment to the other pink nub for a leisurely time.  

     Down and down the trail of exploring kisses dared to go. All Diarmuid could do was hold onto the older man's shoulders as he ardently lowered himself to his knees in the water.

     The boy panted with quiet breaths while the crusader’s large hands grasped his hips and Diarmuid felt the Mute hold him steady.

     The lower planes of Diarmuid's stomach were terrifically ticklish and when the muscles fluttered under the Mute's lips, the crusader smiled for a second at the observation before continuing on with more firm presses to avoid teasing.

     The Mute bypassed Diarmuid’s growing arousal to leave little, pink marks dotted along the jut of hip bones and the lines where thighs joined his groin.

     Diarmuid's heart raced in his chest. He was unsure of what to do, but at the same time the Mute did not seem to expect anything from him as he kissed his body. He let himself get entranced with the sight of the Mute lavishing attention on him.

     The man looked strangely peaceful there on his knees worshiping Diarmuid’s skin with amorous touches and the younger man’s heart pinned to see his dearest friend this untroubled always.

     He idly ran his fingers through the hair at the base of the Mute’s skull, threading the black locks with strokes that he hoped came off as soothing and enjoyable. His touch prompted the crusader to glance up at him with a heady stare.

     When the older man moved so his mouth enclosed around the boy's erection and began sinking down, the air was punched out of Diarmuid's chest.

     It was a complete overload of sensations: the tight, burning-hot suction of the Mute's mouth and tongue was unbelievable on that particular part of his body where he was still learning how much pleasure he could experience.

     The Mute began moving at a gentle pace. He would pull back, not letting the younger man slip from his mouth to tease the head with the tip of his tongue before taking him back down to the hilt. The new, wet, enveloping slide of his mouth combined with his rough thumbs rubbing circles on Diarmuid’s hip bones was too much and it did not take long before the brunet’s bliss crested. His fingers entwined in the Mute’s hair reflexively as his orgasm jolted through him, his body trying to curl inward from the muscles in his stomach spasming.

     He whimpered, embarrassed and aware through the waves of pleasure of how he was filling the older man’s mouth but he watched mesmerized as the Mute’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He swallowed down everything without hesitation and Diarmuid moaned weakly at the realization.

     The Mute let him drop from his mouth and pressed his forehead to Diarmuid's stomach, fingers digging into his hips, where the older man huffed out pants of breath across the boy's skin, trying to calm himself down as well.

     The Novice untangled his fingers from the Mute's thick, dark hair and held the man's face. He looked up and Diarmuid saw that same faltering, fearful look on the Mute's face as he had worn after the fight in the woods. That moment when the crusader was afraid of _himself_ , of _losing control_ and hurting the young monk.

     Diarmuid slipped his hands down to the Mute's arms and tugged him up, helping him stand again. The smaller man saw how the Mute was stiff between his legs but the crusader seemed more reluctant to close the space between them like before.

     Diarmuid was not so apprehensive though and he wrapped his arms up around the Mute's neck to pull them together. The boy's legs felt shaky and he needed the grounding feeling of the man's lips against his.

     The hard line of the Mute's erection pressed warmly on his stomach between them, wet and slippery from the water.

     As they kissed, the older man's hips twitched in a moment of weakness and a hurt-sounding sigh puffed out of the Mute. Diarmuid did not want him to hold back though and he wiggled slightly in his arms to prompt him to move again.

     The Mute's hands held tightly on his hips, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of his ass while he rutted his hips. Diarmuid willingly surrendered his mouth to the crusader's deep kisses. For him, knowing that the Mute was using his body for his own pleasure was a strangely powerful feeling. As much as he felt out of his depth in this new territory, seeing how he had the ability to bring similar pleasure to the other man made him glow inside.

     The Mute urgently rolled his hips, abs flexing with each little, dragging thrust along the pale skin of Diarmuid's middle.

     When the Mute reached his climax, he groaned out sharply, breaking their kiss to latch his mouth onto the junction of neck and shoulder on Diarmuid's right side. He bit down, not hard enough to break the skin or leave a bruise, but it still was a new surprise.

     Diarmuid clung on as the Mute came back down. Hot splashes of the crusader's release spread between the both of them but neither cared while they soaked in each other's waves of bliss.

     In the end, the Mute meticulously cleaned the smaller man up, taking their time being thorough in their seclusion.

 

     ~*~

Africk tried spending the afternoon in the house on the floor teaching the two men how to properly suture. She had a pile of mending but she used the fabric to show with demonstrative movements how to imagine the tears as broken flesh and how to stitch with even placement to prompt the skin to pull itself back together correctly.

     The young monk flourished and the Mute did fair enough, though a small tremor in his hands crept up with the fine motions and made threading the needle frustratingly difficult. Diarmuid had observed silently for a bit before he placed his hands over the Mute’s, stilling the shaking.

     “Try now,” Diarmuid prompted, totally hopeful that the two of them could be successful together. The steadying helped but the Mute was more impressed with the natural way Diarmuid took to the older woman’s teachings.

     A loud knocking shook the front door and startled the group of them. Africk stood up from her seat, cursing the ruckus and opened the door mid-bang. Broin the Captain stood there with a stern look.

     “The French are coming,” he grunted out. “Mac Lochlainn says about a half dozen of ‘em, horseback, coming up northward on the river-road. Just a warning,” he finished, eyes darting over to the Mute for a second before he pushed off from the door frame and was gone.

     Diarmuid’s head whipped over to the Mute beside him and the older man saw the look of panic washed over his face clearly. A number of his options began running through his head, but before he had a chance, Africk was already prepared and giving out orders.

     “You...” she said, pointing to the Mute who picked himself up as quickly as possible. “Listen to me now. Head towards the well and bear right. There is a charred dwelling near the stables. Hide in there. They will not bother with it-- they burnt it last time.”

     He worried for what reason they had destroyed it but Africk seemed certain. He exchanged looks with Diarmuid but the medicine woman spoke again.

     “No, you stay here, Diarmuid,” she ordered. “Change out of your habit as swiftly as possible.” Diarmuid scrambled to do as she said and Africk turned her attention back to the Mute, who was immediately reluctant to leave the smaller man.

     “Trust me,” she reassured with a stern determination and the Mute realized that he did not have any other option. It was not as if he could take on six, armed men alone in his condition.

     With his heart soaked in worry, he swiftly dragged himself out of the house.

     The building was exactly where she said it was. The abandoned ruin had seemingly been a house long ago but the left side of the building was scarred with black, charcoal blisters. The thatch roof was almost completely gone but the skeletal, scorched cross-beams of wood were still standing precariously on the right side. Perhaps rain had put out the fire before it had completely taken the heavy, wooden house.

     The Mute dashed in through the door hanging weirdly in its frame. He angled himself in the corner where he could still see glimpses out from the decrepit window shutters and waited with bated breath as the jangle of armored steeds trotted into The Deeps.

     He noted two Knights who traveled with a caravan of four squires saddled up with heavy packs on their horses. Two of the attendants carried short-swords at their sides while the other two were armed with bows. The archers would without a doubt make any sort of combat near impossible with their quivers packed full of arrows. He regretted his lack of a sturdy weapon.  

     “Everyone outside! Now!” one of the archers bellowed out as the troop approached the center of town. The horses cantered around the well as the men waited for the villagers to file out of their homes.

     People inched outside, holding their children and loved ones close as the soldiers ordered them into a line in the village center.

     “We are only passing through and wish to refill our water-bags. We will be swift and out of your way shortly,” one of the Knights spoke to the crowd. On cue, two of the underlings jumped off their mounts and went to work over the well.

     The commanding Knight who had spoken dismounted as well, handing the reins off to the other Knight before he strolled towards the line of villagers.

     He inspected the citizens with scrutiny one by one. Each glance felt like a trial as he moved down the line, asking the side question here and there. By the time he got to the end near Africk and Diarmuid, the Mute prayed hopelessly that they would be done and move on. He was not so lucky though.

     “Who is your caretaker, old woman?” the Knight asked Africk.

     “I may be old, as you have been kind enough to point out, but I have no need for a caretaker. I am the town doctor,” she replied back with an air of dignity.

     The soldier did not seem to be in the mood to fight an elder however and he shockingly let her sass slip by without comment, although he did have a scowl painted on his face.

     He stepped in front of Diarmuid finally and the Mute's blood seemed to pump with frightening speed through his heart.

     “And are you with her?” he asked.

     Diarmuid's mouth opened silently in hesitation but Africk interrupted.

     “He is my grandson and my apprentice.”

     The Knight inspected the young man before him with a dissecting glare.

     “Have you ever considered fighting in God's holy army before, son?” the Knight questioned. “You are not too young to begin serving Him against the heathens.”

     The Mute felt equally alarmed as the Novice’s face looked. However, Diarmuid trained his face back into that determined look he sported when he was facing a challenge head-on.

     “I only wish to learn my family's craft, sir,” he replied carefully.

     The Knight hummed in a dismissive response.

     “Sir! We are done,” a squire proclaimed.

     With one last sweeping look, the lead Knight sauntered back to his horse. Wherever they were destined to make camp was more important than this lowly town along the way. The soldiers trotted north, slipping past the line of people with weary glances as they continued onward with their quest. With caution, each family drifted back to their homesteads and bolted their doors behind them.

     Africk grabbed Diarmuid’s arm and the pair returned to the older woman’s house.

     The Mute waited, not daring to risk coming out too soon. There was no guarantee if the Frenchmen had been forewarned about the elusive, sacred stone or the death of Raymond De Merville. Being certain that the troop was off far in the distance, he finally left the damaged house and made his way back to O' Murchadha’s house.

     Diarmuid was standing in the addition’s door frame, peeking outward to wait for the Mute’s return. When he saw the older man round the bend he dashed out.

     In the pathway, the young brunet met the Mute and wrapped his arms around the older man’s waist in a strong hug. He returned the embrace with strength, trying to ease the fear out of Diarmuid.

     The Mute considered that if there was truly a God, he had surely watched out for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that everything will be wrapped up in the next chapter (or at least I hope so). <3


	7. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST A WARNING: There's some more violence/gore in this chapter along with death but none for main characters. I just wanted to give a head's up before hand.

     There was something fascinating about the charred building near the well. Just past the small stable for holding mounts temporarily, the dwelling stood like a cast-aside artifact. Every morning the Mute would travel to the well to fetch fresh water and every morning he would glance over to steal minutes staring at the house.

     On this particular morning, the Mute had the sudden urge to look closer. Africk and Diarmuid were down by the river replacing one of the eel nets and he figured that he would not be missed for a bit. So he finished filling his buckets and headed towards the ruin.

     Placing the buckets down on the grassy pathway overgrown from lack of use, the Mute touched his fingertips to the crooked front door. He saw immediately how the bottom hinge had slipped free. With a directing tug, he lifted the pin back into the slot and the door hung correctly once more in the entrance. He let himself push the door open with tented fingers and the wood swung in with a bit of rusty resistance.

     The inside was the same as the last time he had gone in: a hollow promise of what the space had once been. There was a hearty stone fireplace that had withstood time with ease but stood covered in thick dust and soot. The floors were wooden but needed replacing badly from exposure to the seasons. Dried leaves and pine needles crunched under his boots as he inched inside.

     The Mute reached the left wall and inspected the wood. While some of the lower boards had felt the singe of the flames, only the top four boards had really lit and replacing them along with the bits of cross-beaming in dire need would only take a couple of days with the proper supply of prepared wood and pounded nails.

     Africk stepped through the doorway, laughing out one huff as she found the Mute exactly where she had suspected him. The sound caused the man to whip his head around before relaxing again at the sight of the older woman.

     “They used it as an example you know, this house? It had been left for two springs before the first line of Norman’s came through. When we did not gift them with three weeks rations for their troops, they made sure to scare us into it,” she said, stepping inside as well and peeking around.

     “Have you ever built a house before?”

     The Mute turned to face her and slowly nodded.

     “Good, then this will give you something productive to do,” Africk said with a smile as she turned to leave. “Now hurry up, I’ve let it slide long enough but you need your hair cut. The long days are getting hotter and a little change is always welcome, no?”

     She picked up one of the buckets outside the door and without waiting for him, made her way back.

     That night around the fire when Africk mentioned to the Mute sharpening the old axe to begin preparing lumber, Diarmuid had looked over at the older man. Curiosity and excitement painted his face and the Mute could not help the smile that twitched at his lips at the sight, which only seemed to solidify the smile on Diarmuid’s face in return.

     It became a routine. Every day, the pair would awake to assist Africk with the morning cooking, laundry and trap checking. When the morning chores were complete, the Mute was off to chop and split wood for the stretch of day past noon. Africk was more than willing to speak on his behalf with the other villagers and with ease they both gathered what the Mute needed to keep working on the old house as the days passed by.

     No one cared what happened with the phantom house and days stretched to weeks while the trio worked pleasantly in the summer calm that made itself at home in the village.

     One dimming afternoon, the Mute stood in the progressing house. The daylight was slowly leaving but he was almost done re-hanging the last shutter over the side window. He heard the door creak open and was not surprised to see Diarmuid's head peek around the door.

     “Africk says that supper is almost ready,” the young man said as he came inside and closed the door behind him. “I do not mean to rush you by it. I will wait here for you…”

     There was something uneasy in the Novice's voice, something like nervousness and the older man was instantly curious. He left his work and stepped closer to Diarmuid who stood uncomfortably in the center of the room. He had his gaze cast down to the new wood boards of the floor.

     The Mute lifted his hand and cupped the side of Diarmuid's face ever-so-softly. The boy gasped and instead of the calming effect he had hoped for, the younger man's face fell into a look of anxiety. He worried for a second that he should pull his hand back but Diarmuid reached up to hold him tightly there in place.

     His mouth opened and closed for a moment and the Mute waited patiently for Diarmuid to speak although he was getting increasingly fretful.

     “There is something that I must confess... something wicked that I cannot possibly keep from you, although I fear what you will think of me once I do,” Diarmuid rushed out breathlessly, like the terrible secret was eating him alive from the inside out. There was such fear on his face but there was nothing that he could say to make the Mute think him wicked.

     “That day you fought Raymond De Merville… out on the boat…” The very breath seemed lodged in the monk’s throat as his voice stalled out, on the verge of tears.

     “Brother Geraldus was not murdered by Raymond De Merville’s men… I killed him.”

     The Mute’s face pulled in confusion. He couldn’t fathom what Diarmuid was saying.

     “Cathal was already gone and you were--” he cut off, a tear spilling down his face as he blinked up at the older man. “I could hear you fighting but none of it felt worth it. The relic was declared to bring faith to the faithless; to bring peace to the upcoming Crusade but… all it did was prevail death upon anyone who sought it.”

     “So I tried to throw it into the ocean and Brother Geraldus went with it. He had said there was the Devil in me and it’s true,” he said weakly.

     The Mute shook his head in protest immediately. Brother Geraldus had been a man who had already thrown away his humanity to be closer to God. Where his father had chosen kindheartedness when others might not have had the bravery to do so, Geraldus had seen nothing but transgression.

     Diarmuid would have flung himself between Brother Ciarán at the post and Raymond De Merville if the Mute had been too slow to stop him but Geraldus had been more than willing to turn his back without a second of guilt. When others had been terrified to even consider carrying the relic, Diarmuid had offered himself, no hesitation in his heart for God’s mission. In the dawning hours of the day, in the forest as they ran helplessly from the camp of French soldiers and tribesmen, Diarmuid had been the one who spoke of faith while all seemed lost.

     Wickedness was not something he was capable of; not even when death, violence, and Godlessness stood before him.

     The Mute held the boy’s face with both hands and made him look through the tears welled in his eyes up at him. He needed Diarmuid to see how much he did not think that of him-- of how _certain_ he was about the younger man’s benevolent nature.

     He held Diarmuid close, leaving soothing presses of lips to the small brunet’s cheeks and temples. The action calmed the Novice greatly, comforted by the Mute’s consoling reaction.

     Diarmuid’s breathing was calmer but his fingers twisted in the Mute’s shirt in a nervous way still and the older man stroked the side of his face and neck to show his tender patience.

     “Brother Ciarán told me something in the French camp the night before he died. He said that peace was not the natural way of things… that it is something that must be grown and nurtured.”

     Brother Ciarán had certainly been wise: the kind of wisdom that came from being as worldly and compassionate as the Herbalist had been.  

     “I think… I think that we could grow that peace here...together,” Diarmuid whispered.

     The Mute nodded lightly and when Diarmuid returned the gesture with a timid smile the older man closed the gap between them.

     The kiss felt like a promise and he meant it heart and soul.

 

     ~*~

 

     The heat was oppressive, but maybe not more so than the clanging rattle of chain-mail and plated steel. As the small troop made their way down the stifling hallway, the Sergeant was encircled by the pack of soldiers following the white-robed Templar closely. His heart pounded like an animal trapped in a predator’s grasp however he tried to keep his expression detached.

     The Knight spoke to him half-heartedly and words left the Sergeant’s mouth in return but he did not truly know what he was saying in response. A sense of frustration was bubbling under his skin, making him tense, and his nerves prickled from the way the other man in front of him held himself so casually.

     The group came to a halt in an open courtyard and with a strange familiarity, the Knight spun around to face the Sergeant.

     “This city has fought hard, that is for certain, but the blasphemers could not stop the swift hand of God nor the men they sent to do his bidding,” he said with a gesture between the both of them. “It is our job today to make sure that they will not have the resources to fight again for a long time.”

     “Go,” the Knight ordered, turning to one of his squires, “fetch the first one.”

     A loyal servant, one of the squires flitted off towards the west corridor, leaving the Sergeant with no distraction from the leader’s demanding gaze.

     “Alexios V will regret the choices that he made,” the Knight warned. He nodded to himself as he spoke and the Sergeant felt the frustration in his being climb towards a peak. Distinctly, he recognized the strong desire to be anywhere else but there, alas he had no say in the matter.

     His heartbeat picked up double-time when he heard the approaching sounds of the _Chevalier’s_ subordinate. How much longer could the muscle buried in his chest work at such a pace before he passed out?

     The soldier returned and in his hold he dragged along a young boy, hands bound behind his back. The youth was too old to be a babe yet it was clear by his slight form that he was too young to wield a blade and fight against an army. Sobs broke through the thick silence of the isolated courtyard and made the Sergeant's blood feel ice cold.

     The second squire met the first and they both took a firm hold on each of the boy’s arms, keeping him locked in place before the Templar.

     The man unsheathed the longsword at his side in a piercing ring of sliding metal like a shrill bell of death.

     He was powerless as he watched the gleaming sword plunge through the flesh at the boy’s chest and pull downward. The process was ruthless and quick regardless of its savage, messy nature. A sound that started as a scream decayed immediately as the Knight dispatched the youth as effortlessly as a gutted lamb with the honed blade.

     The Sergeant’s whole body was frozen in the spot as the blood and viscera cascaded to the dirt, pooling faster than the dry earth could drink and splashing on the Knight’s boots. He terrifyingly felt as though his body was not his own and he could not stir his limbs to move no matter how severely he wished.

     The two squires took the now-limp form in their hold and dragged the corpse off to the side where they tossed it without care to the corner of the courtyard.

     “Bring the next one,” the Knight prompted, gesturing towards the corridor with the scarlet, dripping sword. Off the squire left again without a word.

     “We will have to be swift to finish in a timely manner.” The _Chevalier_ turned to the Sergeant and his hand raised the weapon out, offering the hilt toward him.

     How could the man expect him to take the blade? As if the horrific slaughter was not despicable enough to turn anyone's stomach, honestly how could any man under the eyes of God or not willingly perform this task?

     To the Sergeant’s complete horror, his own hand reached up and he watched with a surreal detachment as his body betrayed him. His broad hand gripped the handle of the sword and took the heavy, foreboding metal without his permission.

     The Knight moved to the side, stepping out of the way as the sound of his man approaching grew once again.

     The squire returned once more, another poor soul in tow. This boy was more frightened than the other, although understandably for the gruesome sight before them was too clear to be mistaken for anything other than the encroaching slaughter that was his fate.

     The boy tried to flail out of his captor’s grasp with one desperate twist but it was not enough to shake off the larger man and he cried out in anger and panic.

     The soldier brought him forth where the other helped catch him in place before the Sergeant.

     The boy took in the sight of the Sergeant, eyes flashing to the sword in his hand in fear. In a last ditch act of defiance, the youth kicked his leg out at the Sergeant but his range was compromised and he missed the crusader.

     “Hold him still!” the Knight bellowed out. The squires tightened their grip and trapped his legs in place with theirs to prevent him from flailing again.

     “Do it now,” the man beside him ordered.

     The pent-up frustration had reached a boiling point and soaked through the Sergeant’s entire being, stringing him tight like a bowstring on the precipice of breaking. It was the angry voice of the Knight right next to his ear that finally made him snap.

     “You must follow God’s will, soldier.”

     He spun and the blade slid through the Knight’s exposed throat like hot lard, barely slowed by the spinal cord but catching on the chain-mail out the back. The Sergeant could feel the hands of the other soldiers pulling him back but he could not look away from the Knight’s shocked face even as blood spilled over the man’s lips, rushed down the front of his armor, down the length of blade over his hands--

 

     ~*~

 

     The Mute’s eyes snapped open and it took a second before he realized that he was already sitting bolt upright on the bed, disorientation making him dizzy for a second until it faded as he took in his surroundings.

     It was still dark out, fireplace cold, but the open window let the luminous glow from the full moon into the cozy room. His chest finally unlocked and allowed shaking puffs of air to drag deep into his lungs to match his terror-stricken heartbeat.

     He realized he was in Ireland, in The Deeps, in _his house_.

     He felt a rustling to his right and his gaze softened when he took in the form beside him.

     Another ghost came to his mind, one from before the years of slaughter and bloodshed: the ghost of a fiancée who had already been in the ground long before the troops had come through his village, amassing an army. The Mute had been certain that he would never again feel that serene, domestic peace--had even resigned himself to the fact.

     However, seeing Diarmuid beside him instantly had that sweet comfort flooding back. The boy was soft and sleep-rumpled, thin blanket pooling in his lap and covering his nude form. The radiating moonlight lit his chest in glowing silver and the older man could see the lingering, pink spots he had left on the brunet only hours ago.

     “Do not be afraid,” Diarmuid said, lifting his hands up in an easy, open gesture and placing them on the Mute’s shoulder and chest to ground him. “You are here with me. We are safe.”

     The young monk’s voice and caress were welcome distractions and the Mute closed his eyes to lean into the boy’s touch. He tried to match his harsh drags of air to Diarmuid’s tranquil breathing while the Novice tugged the older man closer into his space.

     It was too easy for the Mute to let Diarmuid pull him over but the younger man had a power over him that could not be compared to the influence of armor, muscles, or gold. Without a doubt, the Mute knew that he would pledge undying fidelity or loyally perform any labor if Diarmuid commanded it.

     He draped himself over the smaller man, leaning his weight on his forearms as Diarmuid ran his hands through the Mute’s hair.

     “It was only a nightmare, it is over now,” Diarmuid whispered with other romantic sweet-nothings and the older man let the words wash over him.

     He nuzzled his face against the smaller man’s for a heartbeat before sitting up.

     He scooped an arm under Diarmuid and used his strength to lift and drop him back down onto the center of the bedding, shoving the thin blanket out of the way and onto the floor. He knelt back on his heels, spreading the brunet’s thighs and draping them over his own as he shifted close between Diarmuid’s legs.

     The vision of the Novice before him on their bed, under their roof that he had built, was an enchanting sight.

     Diarmuid laid loosely with patience under the man’s unhurried gaze. He was always so willing, so trusting, and that in return made the Mute’s chest swell with overwhelming affection.

     It was not the same as saying out loud how precious Diarmuid was to him, but he did his best with the kiss he leaned down to place on the brunet’s downy, parted lips. Nor could he replace the actual confession of his love with his touch, but he tried twice as hard to focus his devotion into each inch of skin that ran under his hands while he touched.

     His hands blazed a trail but it was not enough and he decided to follow their path with his mouth as well, desperate to lay his intent on every inch of Diarmuid's skin he could.

     He kissed his way down the center of Diarmuid's sternum, along his breastbone before the slope of his rib cage began dipping towards his stomach. With a look that asked for him, he paused to check with the smaller man before he moved onward.

     “Please, do not stop,” Diarmuid sighed. He was watching the older man closely and the Mute could not keep his eyes from staring up to Diarmuid's face to watch every little reaction that flickered across openly while he kissed downward.

     Along his abdomen and towards the needy place between the Novice's legs he moved but he did not touch the younger man's cock yet which was slowly filling out. Instead he ran his hands up Diarmuid's calves, pushing the brunet's left knee outward to spread his legs wider.

     He found the larger mark he had sucked on the sensitive stretch of Diarmuid’s inner thigh earlier and placed a soft kiss on his handiwork.  

     A relaxed sigh snuck out of Diarmuid and the Mute had to look up again to see his face. The brunet was watching him through half-lidded eyes, clearly enjoying the attention and some primal part inside the older man purred.

     This time as the Mute kissed and licked his way up Diarmuid’s thigh he did not stop at his erection like earlier that night. The Mute scooped Diarmuid's calves and placed them over his shoulders, down his back, as he laid between the boy's legs and gave himself better access to his goal.

     The sound that left Diarmuid when the Mute began opening him up with his tongue was better than any other he could possibly imagine. He started slowly with little kitten-licks but by the time he had the rim relaxed enough for his whole tongue the younger man's thighs were trembling.

     The symphony of gasps and moans was gorgeous and prompted the crusader to push a little further.

     He pulled away enough to watch as his broad finger explored the rim of muscles, tugging at the edges just barely without actually slipping in. Diarmuid was loose from the man's patient tongue but the Mute did not want to move too quickly as he dared to ease forward.

     The wet channel accepted the rocking of the man's digit with every infinitesimal nudge but the Mute had his face trained on Diarmuid above him on the bed.

     The younger man had his face tilted up to the ceiling. His hands were holding the linens beneath him but he was still hard against his stomach and his features were lax and without pain.

     Finally when the Mute's hand reached its limit he tried to find that spot he knew was sensitive inside for a male. He curled his finger upward with little strokes and almost immediately a choked moan ricocheted out of Diarmuid's lungs in their little cottage.

     There was nothing quite like the feeling of the Novice's body, never-mind the incredible, slick heat of his inner walls.

     A grunt snapped out of the brunet's core and his breath stopped as his spine arched beautifully.

     Diarmuid's release splashed across the spasming muscles of his stomach and the Mute dipped his head to catch and swallow the rest of it down. Heavy pulls of air caught in Diarmuid's chest and the older man carefully slipped his hand away and sat back.

     The Mute was hard but he just helped lay Diarmuid's legs back down and laid beside him to pull the exhausted boy into his arms.

     He was already thinking of the morning when Diarmuid would wake. He planned on laying back and pulling the younger man above him. He would happily give his body up in return to teach his sweet lover how two could slot together completely to form one.

     For now he would let the younger man rest again in the quiet blanket of night. Diarmuid's pink-tipped nose pressed into his chest and the older man tugged him even closer to his own body.

     Perhaps peace _could be_ planted, nourished and cultivated with the loving attention of man similar to mother nature. It took forgiveness and acceptance, but more important than anything else, the drive to grow rather than wither.

     If Diarmuid wanted to try, then so did he.

 

     ~ _THE END~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, thanks to everyone who followed along and supported this. I may have already started another one-shot for this fandom and if there are any requests, I'd love some inspiration to write for this fandom!
> 
> Also, I made a playlist that I used to write this whole thing so if anyone's interested by chance:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLX74m4ItLtfxVyyothr_DR2haonkqo_It


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